Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  He hesitated, clearly unsure what crime Companys had committed. Another uniformed figure at the table prompted him.

  “Sedition!”

  “Yes,” continued the first inquisitor, “sedition,” and he spat violently in the president’s face. With his hands tied behind his back, Companys endured the humiliation of the spittle running down his face. “Let us hope you enjoy your quarters on this lovely boat,” he continued. “It is the decision of this court …”

  He paused dramatically, turning back to the others seated at the table. Execution flashed through Jordi’s head, and he fumbled for the black cat in his pocket.

  “The decision of this court is that you will remain on this prison ship indefinitely. I have myself spent some time on board, enjoying the company of my friends here, and the luxurious facilities. Now the tables are turned, aren’t they? I’m sorry you’ll not get to cruise the Mediterranean, but this ship’s not going anywhere. And neither are you. Take him back down.”

  Portillo jabbed Companys in his side with his gun, and the President started to shuffle back towards the door he had come from. Turning, he looked slowly along the line of shocked reporters, until Portillo jabbed him again, and he turned, straightened up proudly, and walked away. The rest of the uniformed group followed. The reporters sat in silence, until one of them stood up and said, “Well, that’s that. Not much of a story.”

  “Actually,” thought Jordi, “a huge story.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The capture of President Companys sent shock waves through Catalonia and beyond. Madrid ruled with an iron fist, and the Spanish coalition made it clear that it was aligning itself with Hitler and Mussolini.

  As he slowly made his way home, following the traumatic experience on the Uruguay, and nursing his grazed knuckles, Jordi considered what he would write for the paper. How dangerous would it be to tell the truth? Climbing wearily up the stairs, he could hear voices in his room. Not only was Steven there, as he expected, but also Ferrer and his mother. Leaping up from the chaise, his Mam embraced him.

  “I’ve been so worried,” she said, “ever since Steven told me where you had gone. Thank God, you’ve escaped.”

  Seated on the chaise, Jordi let his mother bathe his bleeding hands.

  “You’re shaking,” said Mam. “Was it so shocking?”

  “On that boat? It’s terrible. I can only guess that what it’s like below decks. I saw enough to scare me to death. It’s dark and dirty even on a sunny afternoon, and the stink is beyond description.”

  “We can smell it on your clothes,” said Steven grimly.

  “Is our President alright?” said Ferrer.

  “At first, he was really bowed down, and looked terrible. His face is bruised, and his hands are tied so tightly behind his back, he must be in agony. But he stood tall and defiant as he was led back to his cell. I cannot imagine that there’s any way he can escape.”

  “Poor man,” said Mam.

  “Poor Catalonia,” said Ferrer.

  “But Mam, why are you here?” said Jordi. “You haven’t told me.”

  “Your father sent me. He says I mustn’t tell Tomas that he sent me, but he wants to know the latest news about Companys, and he’s sent a parcel for you.”

  Handing a bulky package to Jordi, his mother continued, “Don’t open it until I’ve gone.” Jordi put the package on the table, puzzled by its weight. Turning to his mother, he said, “Tell Pa, the fascists are our real enemy. Tell him Madrid is calling all the shots at the moment, quite literally. It’s Madrid who’s imprisoned our President. It’s very frightening. With Senor Hitler in Germany, and Senor Mussolini in Italy, I fear for Spain.”

  “Pa says the anarchist cause is getting stronger every day.” said Mam. “More and more of the workers are deserting the regular unions and joining the ranks of anarchy. The city is like a huge bomb waiting to explode.”

  “We’ve said that many times before. It’s been like that for some time,” said Jordi.

  “It’s getting worse and worse,” said Mam, as she embraced Jordi once more, and whispered “For God’s sake, be careful. I love you, and in a strange way, so does your father.” She turned and left them.

  As they heard her steps die away on the stairs, Ferrer said, “Open the package, Jordi. I’m fearful of what it contains.”

  Noticing with some irony that the package was wrapped in music manuscript paper, Jordi used a knife to cut the string. Pulling the paper away, he revealed a pistol and ammunition. He turned slowly to the other two. “It’s from my father,” he said. “He wants me to have a gun, even though he knows I’ll not use it like an anarchist. He’s sent me a gun.”

  “Bring it to the Begemot,” said Ferrer. “We need to talk with the others. We know from what’s happened to President Companys that things are getting serious.”

  The group who met at the Begemot Bar was a good-natured gaggle of communists, who had all believed in seeking a peaceful revolution. With President Companys’s declaration of a socialist state of Catalonia, they thought a peaceful revolution was at hand, but it hadn’t lasted long. Confronted by Jordi’s tale of the drum-head trial on the Uruguay, in which the president had been unable to say anything, they were waking up to the reality of their situation. They were socialists living in a police state, a country ruled by fascists, who would kill them on a whim. There was scant comfort in knowing that Jordi was telling the world, through the London newspaper, what was going on.

  It seemed inevitable to Jordi, that his father, and Tomas, and the growing number of anarchists in the city, who had been quiet for some time, would resume their terrorist activities; and he was sitting typing when he heard an enormous explosion in the distance. Hurrying downstairs, he asked a passer-by if he had heard the noise.

  “Probably a bomb,” said the man. “Sounded like it come from Sants, or somewhere that way.”

  Jordi hurried towards the Hispano works, where under-paid workers still made luxury cars for the super-rich. A young man came rushing towards him, running as fast as he could. Jordi stopped as the man ran past. Although he could not be sure, because of the man’s thick beard, it looked like Tomas. The man did not pause, but rushed headlong down the street. As he drew near to the factory, Jordi could see smoke rising from one of its buildings. Grim-faced workers in their familiar blue overalls were hurrying towards him.

  “They got the offices,” said one of them. “They got a bomb into the front office.”

  Jordi hurried on against the flow of workers. As he neared the factory, he could see flames shooting into the sky from the square brick building which housed not only the company’s offices, but also the grand suites for the wealthy directors, and the lavish reception area for rich clients. Sitting on the pavement was a young woman, her hands and face blackened with smoke, her dress torn. She had lost her shoes and was crying and shaking. Jordi sat beside her.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  Without lifting up her face, she said, “I’m OK.” After a pause, she continued hesitantly, “I just came downstairs to go across to the workshop, just left the offices, when there was a terrible noise behind me. As I turned, the whole place erupted. I ran and fell, and ran again. I don’t know when I lost my shoes. A great cloud of smoke and dust came over me, and I just lay on the ground with my hands over my face. Quickly the first thunderous noise changed into the roaring and crackling of flames. When I sat up, I found I was unharmed, but behind me the whole building was alight.”

  Jordi looked up. At the end of the street, he could see the offices burning, and as he watched, the nearest wall collapsed inwards into the inferno, sending another cloud of debris into the air. He shielded his face from the heat, and the rush of glowing sparks blowing towards the girl and himself.

  “Let’s get away from here,” said Jordi. “There’s enough firemen and soldiers to try to put the fire out; most of the workers have run for it.”

  “What about my shoes?” said the girl. “I must go bac
k for my shoes.”

  “I don’t think you’ll find them,” said Jordi kindly. “You come with me.”

  Jordi stood and helped the girl to her feet. She was very unsteady, and Jordi put his arm around her waist. “My room’s not far away. Come back with me, and we’ll get you cleaned up a little.”

  Holding her round the waist, Jordi could not help but notice how slim she was. In her state of shock, she allowed him to lead her away from the mayhem, and together they started down the road towards the Placa d’Espanya. After a while, the girl began to feel faint, and Jordi picked her up and carried her. At the door of the apartment building, he fumbled with the key, and got the two of them into the lobby. He looked at the girl, and he looked at the stairs.

  “This will be tricky,” he thought to himself. Halfway up the stairs, he paused, breathing heavily. The girl revived a little, and they managed the rest of the climb, clinging both to one another and the metal handrail. Once inside his room, Jordi lay her on the chaise. She lay still and silent for a while. Jordi sat on a chair and watched her.

  “Where am I?” she said as she stirred.

  “I brought you to my room, to help you get cleaned up. You’re safe here.” said Jordi.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a bomb. You weren’t in the office, and you fell.”

  “Yes, I remember. There was a fire.” The girl sat up. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Jordi Vilaro. This is my room. I brought you here.”

  The girl shivered violently. “But everyone else? All the others in the office? By our Lady, what happened to them?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jordi. “It must have been a very big bomb. The fire was very bad.”

  Jordi wetted a cloth at the sink, and handed it to the girl to wipe her face. As she did so, Jordi handed her a cup of water.

  “Wait,” said the girl, “I’m just remembering. There was a special client in the building. Some Marques, Comillas I think his name is. He was in the grand room downstairs, where they drink wine and sign contracts.”

  “Marques de Comillas!” exclaimed Jordi. “I know who that is. He was a very wealthy man; I once worked in one of his mills. I’m not surprised that he was the target for the bomb – and the directors of Hispano would be there with him, arranging the purchase of his next grand car.”

  “It’s funny, isn’t,” said the girl, sipping the water. “We hate these rich men, but if they didn’t buy the cars, we wouldn’t have a job.”

  Standing up, the girl said, “I must go home. My Ma will have heard about the fire, and she’ll not know I’m safe.” Abruptly, she sat down again. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t seem to be able to stand up properly.”

  “I’ll walk you home,” said Jordi, “but what about your feet? My shoes will be much too big for you.”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve walked without shoes,” said the girl. “Where I come from, no-one has shoes when they’re kids. I walked barefoot all the time when I was little.”

  Suddenly she turned to Jordi. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I haven’t said thank you. I don’t know how I got here, but I know I should say thank you. My name’s Laura, Laura Fado. I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Jordi, Jordi Vilaro. You don’t have to apologise. You were in shock when I found you. I carried you most of the way here.”

  “Where are we?” said Laura.

  “Just by Placa d’Espanya. This is my room.”

  She looked around, her eyes taking in the business suit hanging on the back of the door, the telephone, and the typewriter. “Who are you? What do you do?”

  “I’m a reporter for a London newspaper.”

  “Can you type?” she asked.

  “Yes, in a fashion. Not properly, I just taught myself.”

  “So can I,” said Laura. “That’s my job at the factory. I type letters for the boss; or I used to. I don’t know if I’ve still got a job, or a boss. I’m sorry, but I think I must go home. Ma will be worrying.”

  Hearing rapid footsteps on the stairs, Jordi recognised the sound of Steven running up. He burst through the door.

  “Have you heard about the fire?” he asked, and then stopped abruptly, looking round the room. Laura looked up, her face still streaked with soot. She tried to smooth her torn dress.

  “Heard about it, and seen it,” said Jordi. “This is Laura, who works at the factory. It was her building that was blown up.”

  “You survived?” asked Steven.

  “By luck,” said Laura. “Jordi found me in the street, and brought me here.”

  “I’m just going to take Laura home,” said Jordi. “She’s not in a state to go on her own.”

  “Without shoes?” said Steven.

  Laura smiled. “I’ll be alright.”

  “Where do you live?” asked Jordi.

  “Not too far,” said Laura. “Poble Sec.”

  “Just down the road,” said Jordi. “We must get you home to your Ma.”

  It was a warm evening, and Jordi enjoyed walking with this pretty young girl. She was pleased to have his arm around her waist, and from the distance, passers-by would think them a happy couple out for an evening stroll. As they drew closer, they would see her dishevelled state. In this city of bombs, it was not so extraordinary to see someone in such a condition, and they would nod sympathetically, and walk on by.

  In a tiny alley, not far from the windmill nightclub, they came to a narrow door. “Stay and meet my Ma,” said Laura. “She’ll be pleased to see you. Wait, I’ve no key, my bag’s on my desk in the office. Or it was. It will be all gone now.”

  She banged on the door, and it was quickly opened by a woman wearing an apron. “I’ve been worried sick,” said the woman. “I heard there was a bomb. Men from the factory came home early, said there had been a big fire. Oh my goodness, are you alright?”

  “Ma, this is Jordi. He found me in the street, and helped me. I’ve lost my shoes, and I’ve torn my dress.” She stumbled forward and burst into tears of relief.

  With one arm supporting Laura, her mother shook Jordi’s hand. “Thanks Senor,” she said.

  Jordi smiled. “It’s been a pleasure, Senora Fado.”

  Back at his room, Steven was waiting for him.

  “She was a pretty young thing!” said Steven.

  “Yes,” said Jordi, “she was.”

  The following day, Jordi spent the morning back at the Hispano factory, confirming the story of the bomb, and the killing of two of the factory directors, the Marques de Comillas and his wife and son, and sixteen young women. He was reading his report to Steven, when they heard unfamiliar steps on the stairs. Going to the door, Jordi saw Laura coming up, carrying a small package. With her hair washed, and clean clothes, she was a different woman. He smiled as she approached.

  “I’ve got new shoes from Sant Antoni,” she said. “And this is my other work dress. I had two.”

  “It’s good to see you,” said Jordi. “You look so much better.”

  “I’ve come to say thank you. Ma’s made a cake for you.”

  Steven jumped up. “I need to go out for a while,” he said, and rushed out of the door and down the stairs.

  “Your friend was in a hurry,” laughed Laura.

  Jordi took the cake and put it on the table. Turning to Laura, he took both her hands in his. “You are very pretty,” he said.

  “Stop embarrassing me,” she replied. “Let’s eat the cake!”

  Several weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, not long before Christmas, Jordi and Laura were sitting together near the Magic Fountain. It was one of those mild sunny days, which are so delightful in Barcelona, with a clear blue sky.

  “That day we first met, the day of the office fire, you said you hated the rich men of the city, but they provided the jobs for all the workers,” said Jordi.

  “I said that?” said Laura. “I don’t remember. But I know what I meant. We are paid poor wages in the office, a
nd the men on the shop floor get even less. The bosses and owners are so rich, wealth they’ve got from the sweat of the workers.”

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” said Jordi. “It’s why I’m a communist, and yet the wealth of our city comes from these wealthy men. Look around us now. Things like this Magic Fountain, all the buildings left from the great exhibition, all these achievements, made possible by the city’s wealth, and yet achieved on the broken backs of labourers.”

  “From up here, the city looks beautiful, especially in the setting sun. You can’t tell how much poverty there is, nor how squalid the conditions are for almost everyone.” said Laura.

  “And we’ve even got our own Olympic Games coming soon,” said Jordi. “Only a rich city could do such a thing. The city government wants the games to give Barcelona prestige in the eyes of the world; the workers want the games to show Senor Hitler and his Nazis what we think of them.”

  “Will many people be coming to the games?” asked Laura.

  “We’ll see when they happen; they’re more than a year away, and if we have too many terrorist incidents like your office bomb, it will frighten people away. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that the Nazis in Germany rule with such a rod of iron, but have less worries about safety. Here we still have some shred of democracy, even if the fascists in Madrid don’t want us to, and we’re a much better place to hold the games, but at the moment, we’re a more dangerous city.”

  “That’s what’s called a paradox!” exclaimed Laura. “Now stop being so serious, and enjoy the sunset.”

  Jordi looked at the pretty young girl who had become such a good friend. She was ten years younger than him, but clever and bright, and fun to be with. She had taught herself to read, no insignificant achievement for a girl born into poverty, who had no chance to go to school, and without a father; and she had got a good job at the Hispano factory, a clean responsible job in the office where she had learned to type. Following the fire, there were few survivors from the administrative side of the factory, so she had been welcomed back by the surviving bosses and given a make-shift office in the corner of one of the machine shops. She looked the other way when she went into the factory, unable to face the charred remains of the office building where so many of her friends had died.